


wasteland, baby

by BooyahFordhamYacht



Series: don't know if you mean everything to me(chost oneshots) [3]
Category: Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Live RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Che is a baby, Che is dumb, Chost, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Burn, everyone is dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18528073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooyahFordhamYacht/pseuds/BooyahFordhamYacht
Summary: wasteland, baby. i'm in love, i'm in love with youWhen Michael first meets Colin, he can’t breathe. No, not like, ‘wow that guy is gorgeous oh fuck where is the oxygen,’ although if he wasn’t having an asthma attack that probably would’ve happened. He is, though, having a full-blown asthma attack in the bathroom of a comedy club, and it’s Colin who crouches down beside him.Michael and Colin and seven years.ending inspired by contrapposto(a shyan fic whose author i cannot remember)





	wasteland, baby

When Michael first meets Colin, he can’t breathe. No, not like, ‘wow that guy is gorgeous oh fuck where is the oxygen,’ although if he wasn’t having an asthma attack that probably would’ve happened. He is, though, having a full-blown asthma attack in the bathroom of a comedy club, and it’s Colin who crouches down beside him. Colin is the first face Michael’s eyes focus on, and he manages to gesture towards his jacket. Colin, being amazing, understands, and has Michael’s inhaler out of the pocket and in his hand in an instant.

 

The first thing Michael says to Colin when he can breathe again is “you grow that beard on purpose or is someone forcing you?”

 

Colin blinks at Michael, and then laughs. “I’m Colin.”

 

“I know, doofus, you were on stage half an hour ago.” Michael rolls his eyes at Colin, and the man laughs again. Colin helps him up, and they walk to the bar of the club together. Michael buys Colin a drink as thanks. And then another. And then another. And then Colin takes Michael back to his place.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes in the morning, it’s to Colin handing him coffee. Michael stretches, yawns, and takes the mug, offering a small smirk of smile in thanks. Colin, equipped with his own coffee, plops on the other side of the bed, in the spot that’s still warm from when he left.

 

“I didn’t know how you took your coffee, so I just guessed. I hope it’s alright.” Colin is suddenly bashful over the coffee, and Michael is reminded of just how _unashamed_ the man can be.

 

Michael tries a sip, and there’s too much sugar and not enough milk, but he smiles. “It’s great, thank you.”

 

Colin smiles at him and all is good. The soft Sunday sun pouring in from the windows of Colin’s too-nice apartment warms Michael, and he is reminded again, as he glances over at the man beside him, that he’s never felt anything like this before. Colin is entirely new to him, and yet he feels like he’s known him for years, like he’s always known him. Maybe he’s gone completely insane, and maybe Colin just thinks of this as a casual fuck, but Michael is… lost in it. Watching Colin in the sunlight, Michael catches on Colin’s eyes; they’re bluer than any lake or ocean Michael’s ever seen, and so deep that describing them makes Michael feel like some Nicolas Cage asswipe or some shit. He doesn’t want to be sappy, or a romantic, because that’s not really who he is, but this is completely new territory, and he feels, in many ways, like a completely new Michael.

 

The coffee is enjoyed in silence, and Michael doesn’t mind that. Colin has an energy about him that Michael finds utterly relaxing, and he sits beside him and drinks in everything that is Colin, the bedroom, and the view of the New York City skyline.

 

Curiosity eats away at Michael until he can’t take it anymore. “How do you have such a sweet apartment? You a trustfund baby tryna make it big on the comedy circuit?”

 

Colin laughs, and Michael’s heart skips a beat at the sound, as stupid as that sounds. “Nah. I, uh, write for Saturday Night Live.” He flushes, and Michael’s jaw drops.

 

“No shit?”

 

Colin nods. “Yeah. It’s not an incredibly glamorous job, but I don’t really have anything else to spend the money on, so… nice apartment.” Michael can tell Colin is waiting for annoying questions about the celebrities he’s worked for and with, and Michael’s not that guy, so he just shrugs.

 

“Cool. You got any food in this swanky apartment, Mr. Writer?”

 

They make pancakes and bicker over things Michael can’t keep track of, and they eat at the kitchen counter. Michael smirks at the sheer amount of syrup Colin loads onto his pancakes, remembering how much sugar had been in the coffee, but he notices Colin blush at the smirk, so he doesn’t bring it up.

 

They do the dishes side by side, and it’s the most domestic shit for two guys who’ve just met, but it makes Michael feel warm in ways he doesn’t want to think too much about, and when Colin “accidentally” splashes him with water, he’s quick to fire back, wiping his soapy sponge right across Colin’s face.

 

“Oh it’s _on,_ fucker!” Colin laughs, a look of pure shock on his face, and then he’s detaching the sink head from the tap and full-on spraying Michael.

 

Michael cusses and jumps back, laughing, and throws the sponge. It disarms Colin well enough that Michael can get close, and Colin only manages a “No-” before Michael is bearhugging him.

 

Colin sighs. “-you’re all wet.”

 

“Truce?” Michael mutters, and he feels Colin nod against his shoulder.

 

It’s when Michael realizes that he’s got Colin pinned against the corner of the counter that he takes the opportunity to kiss him, hard, passionate, and Colin is quick to respond. Realizing that they’re both absolutely covered in dish soap, they move to the shower. And then Michael gets dressed, kisses Colin one more time, and heads out into the late August sun.

 

* * *

 

Michael doesn’t see him again for four years. He could find Colin’s number from someone, sure, they definitely have mutual friends, but he doesn’t want to. Not if Colin doesn’t want him to call. Not if that was just a casual thing for Colin, because Michael doesn’t want that to be what it was, and if he never finds out one way or the other, than it can’t have been a casual thing.

 

When he does see Colin again, it’s in that same club, this time at Michael’s show. Michael can’t see the crowd too well, the lights are too bright on him, but he’d know the blue eyes in the front row anywhere. He’s been dreaming about them for four years. He pauses midsentence, midjoke, and then clears his throat, looks away from Colin, and keeps going with the show. And promptly refuses to think anymore about Colin.

 

Until Colin corners him in that same bathroom they’d met in, four years ago. Focusing on washing his hands, Michael reverts to humor. “You don’t call, you don’t write…” he takes a high, pitchy voice and Colin sighs.

 

“I’m sorry, I just… well, I suppose it doesn’t matter that much now, does it?” Colin says, and now it is Michael’s turn to sigh.

 

“You’re right. It doesn’t. So, come back to fuck and run again?” Michael looks at him, ignoring the bitter taste the words leave on his tongue, and Colin flushes.

 

“No, I’m, uh, actually seeing someone. And she’s- well, it’s serious.” Colin doesn’t look at him for this part, but Michael really can’t blame him.

 

“She? You’re, uh-”

 

“Bisexual, yeah.” Colin rubs the back of his neck, not meeting Michael’s eyes, and then silence falls. Michael shrugs, because really that’s none of his business and doesn’t matter to him one way or another.

 

Colin clears his throat. “I don’t make a habit of cornering strangers in bathrooms-” Michael hopes Colin doesn’t notice him flinch at the word _strangers_ “-but I’m actually here to offer you a job.”

 

“A job?” Michael looks at him, now, and those eyes staring back at him light a fire in him that he hasn’t felt for four years.

 

“At Saturday Night Live. As a guest writer. You’re funny. We need you.” Colin shrugs, and Michael does too.

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t think long, because who turns down a job like that? Come September, he’s writing for SNL. And he and Colin work in close quarters, and he sees Colin pretty much seven days a week, because people who work for SNL apparently never sleep.

 

For two and a half years, that is his life. Michael pretends that Colin is his friend and coworker and nothing more. They become Weekend Update anchors because they get along so well. Because, as Lorne told them when he brought up the idea, their _chemistry_ is perfect. Michael can’t help but find that almost stupidly ironic.

 

Until he and Colin have a day where they are completely at each other’s throats - Michael feels like fighting and Colin is really getting on every last nerve in his body - and then they’re in Colin’s office, on deadline, for a sketch that is not going how Michael thought it would. It’s two hours past midnight and he knows nothing is going to go well if he sticks around much longer, but like he said, he feels like fighting and Colin has it coming.

 

Colin is frustrated, and he’s the one to light the first spark. “What the fuck is your problem, Michael?!” he explodes, and Michael blinks a moment before getting just as angry and firing right back.

 

“I don’t know, maybe if you were ACTUALLY FUCKING FUNNY we’d have finished by now!” Michael shouts.

 

They yell and scream at each other. They yell and scream, and Colin throws papers across the room, and they scream more, until finally they both just… stop. They collapse on the floor, chests heaving, and stare at the ceiling.

 

It’s something that had been coming since Michael had fallen, head over heels, for Colin in just 12 hours, four years ago. It’s something that had been coming since Michael left Colin’s apartment those four years ago. It’s something that had been coming since Colin never called.

 

Six and a half years late, laying on his back in Colin’s office at three am, Michael gives a ragged, choked sigh that sounds too close to a sob. “You never called.” he whispers, and the words hang in the thick air between them.

 

Colin rolls his head to look at Michael. Michael can it out of the corner of his eye, but he refuses to let himself look Colin in the eyes, as much as his heart is aching in his chest. “What?”

 

“The first time. After I left your apartment. You never called me, and I thought you didn’t…” Michael trails off. He doesn’t quite know how to finish that sentence, probably because he’s not sure what he’s trying to say. Colin sighs beside him, one of those little sighs Michael hears sometimes when the gears are turning too hard in Colin’s head, just a little sharp puff of air out of his nose.

 

“I didn’t what?” and this time it’s that soft voice that Colin uses when he wants to help someone, like he used on Michael in the middle of his asthma attack nearly seven years ago now. It’s the soft voice that Colin used on Kate when Michael found him talking Kate through a panic attack. It’s the soft voice that made Michael fall completely in love with Colin. And it reminds Michael that Colin is far removed from all those years ago, that Colin is in love with someone else, that Michael can’t have him.

 

So Michael shakes his head, and quotes Colin. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

 

* * *

 

 

He gets up and leaves Colin on the floor, leaves Colin’s office, and goes home. Michael cries into his pillow and returns to work the next day, brings Colin a coffee, smiles at him, and does everything he can to make everything perfectly fine. And for another year, Colin is his best friend.

 

They are a better duo than anyone on the show - _Beck and Kyle_ are jealous of their onscreen chemistry, and that makes Michael strangely proud. Colin and Michael laugh and write and create together so efficiently that Michael can let himself forget. Because it’s good like this, and he doesn’t want to lose Colin for four more years like last time.

 

And they talk. In Colin’s office, in the wee hours of Sundays where they’ve escaped the afterparty to be with each other and Colin’s good whiskey and not another soul. In one quiet three am chat, Colin stares at the ceiling for twenty minutes without speaking. Finally, “I had a dream last night.”

 

Michael blinks, drunk and interested. “Kinky dream?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Colin laughs too hard.

 

“No, no. It was uh… well, you and I. We quit SNL and moved to this little city in Italy where all the houses, even the nice ones, are dirt cheap because there’s no economy or whatever… I dunno. It’s a real place, I saw it on the news once.” Colin pauses, and Michael can’t breathe. “But we lived in a town where we had to drive three hours to buy a bag of flour, and we were… happy. You had this stupid garden. It wasn’t like… I dunno, I think we were friends. But we were in Italy, and there was no Update, and you grew tomatoes and I learned to whittle. That was a good dream.”

 

“Oh,” Michael offers, weakly. He doesn’t ask anything else about it, and Colin never brings it up again.

  


* * *

  


Another year passes. They are best friends until there is a knock at the door, and it’s Colin. It’s Colin at his door at 9pm on a Sunday, and Sundays are the days when everyone at SNL gets as far away from work, from each other, as they possibly can.

 

“I broke up with her.” Colin says before Michael even has the door all the way open. Michael blinks at him.

 

“Why?”

 

Colin smiles a strange smile. “I should’ve called.”

 

Michael shrugs. “Well, yeah, I know next week is an off week, but a normal friend would call before showing up at his buddy’s place, it’s common cour-”

 

“No,” Colin laughs again in that wry, gentle way, cutting Michael off. “All those years ago. I, uh, I should’ve called.”

 

Michael’s breath catches in his throat in that way where he thinks something amazing is about to happen, but he’s far too afraid to hope. “You should’ve. Why didn’t you?” He deadpans, but Colin doesn’t flinch.

 

“Because I was in love with you, and terrified. Because I fell in love with a man I’d known for something like 12 hours, and I was completely out of my depth.” Colin sighs, and Michael sees something new in those blue eyes of his. “But now I’m here. Because I never stopped loving you. I love you. And I’m here.”

 

So Michael grabs Colin by that stupid tie he likes so much, and pulls Colin into his apartment. The door is barely shut before Colin is pressed against it, and Michael is kissing him. “Say it again.” Michael whispers, and feels Colin smile against his lips.

 

“I love you, Michael.” Colin says.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes, it is to the smell of bacon. Michael rubs his eyes, stretches, and leaves the warmth of his bed to find Colin in one of Michael’s sweatshirts, which is too big and almost covers his hands as he scrambles eggs. Michael leans against the doorframe and smiles. Colin looks up after a moment, and catches Michael watching him. He flushes. “What?”

 

Michael shrugs, and walks over to Colin. “I like you in my sweatshirt,” and catches the beginning of Colin’s reply in a kiss.

 

When they break apart, Colin shuts off the stove before turning back to Michael. “I have to leave,” he says, and before Michael can even get upset Colin lifts his hands in surrender. “Not like that. Not like… last time. You remember that London trip Lorne had booked?”

 

Michael sighs. He does remember. “That leaves today?”

 

When Colin nods, Michael drops his head to Colin’s shoulder and gives a glorious impersonation of the whine that a two-year old exudes before the mother of all tantrums. Colin gives a little giggle and Michael continue to bitch. “You couldn’t have waited to drop to your knees at my door and confess your undying love?”

 

Colin laughs, pressing a kiss to Michael’s neck, just under the earlobe. Michael shudders. “I don’t remember it going _quite_ like that.” Colin teases, and Michael huffs a laugh.

       

“Whatever. I just don’t want you flying across the ocean to talent scout literally 18 hours after we got our shit together.” Michael grumbles, and Colin sighs. With his hands on Michael’s cheeks, Colin lifts Michael’s head to look him in the eyes.

 

“This is not last time,” Colin starts. Michael tries to look away, knowing it’s silly to genuinely be concerned about this, but Colin is an asshole, and he won’t let him. “This is not last time, and I am not waiting four years to kiss you again. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be going at all. I love you, and I’m coming back for you.” Colin’s voice is hushed and warm, and Michael flushes under his gaze.

 

“I know.” Michael smiles.

 

Colin returns the smile, and for a moment, Michael is complete in a way he hasn’t been in years. A loud grumble of Michael’s stomach ruins the perfection of the moment, and Colin laughs. “Okay, let’s eat!”

 

Michael feels like he is that same 20-something, blissfully happy in the glow of the morning after.

 

* * *

  


A bleary-eyed Colin smiles at Michael from his phone screen. “Up late writing?” Colin asks, voice thick with sleep, and it’s then that Michael realizes 1am in New York is 6am in London.

 

“Oh fuck, I woke you up!” Michael cusses, and Colin giggles, pressing his face into the pillow just barely visible to Michael.

 

“Yeah. It’s okay though, I’d rather talk to you anyways,” Colin mumbles, and Michael flushes.

 

“I miss you,” Michael shifts on his couch, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

 

“It’s been three days, dude.”

 

“Can I not miss my boyfriend?” Michael rolls his eyes, and this time it’s Colin’s turn to flush.

 

“You absolutely can, but I wish you didn’t have to. We only have two more days apart though!” Colin says, and Michael checks the countdown on his laptop.

 

“No, fool, we have 43 more hours.”

Colin squints. “Do you- do you have a _countdown_ set up?” When Michael doesn’t answer, Colin bursts into laughter. “You do! That’s so cute!! Oh my God, you’re such a fucking dork! What, is it called ‘Till My Heart Comes Home?’ Who knew Michael Che, ice king himself, the chillest of the chill, was such a fucking sap?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Jost.” Michael grumbles, and Colin sighs.

 

“Fine, fine. Just know I think it’s absolutely fucking adorable.”

 

A small pause gives Michael a chance to just watch Colin. His usually carefully styled hair is messed softly on his head, his face soft and relaxed, untouched by the stress of show weeks. And it occurs to him in that moment, three thousand miles away from Colin, that Michael desperately wants to grow old with him.

 

“I’ll grow tomatoes someday, I think.” Michael blurts, and Colin stares at him, giving a confused chuckle.

 

“Are you high?”

 

“No. That uh, that dream you had once.”

 

Colin blinks, and then Michael sees realization dawn on his face. “Italy? You remember that?”

 

Michael doesn’t answer him. “You’ll learn how to whittle, because of course you’d pick something completely useless, and I’ll grow tomatoes. And we’re going to do it. When we decide we don’t want to be here anymore, we’ll move there, just the two of us, and you can get a dog you love too much, and life will be us. Just us.”

 

“I want to make us rocking chairs. Matching ones. That’s why I want to whittle, that’s probably why I dreamt about it. Carve our names on them and everything. It was always your name, ever since that night in my apartment. Always yours.”

 

Michael flushes, and feels silly for his comment about whittling. “You know I’m gonna be a grumpy ass old man, right?”

 

Colin laughs. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to change.”

 

Michael fakes hurt, but smiles anyways. “It’s going to be a pain in the ass, you know. Growing old with you.”

 

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

* * *

 

Colin never makes it back to New York. The plane goes down somewhere over the Atlantic. Engine failure. No one’s fault, no one to blame, no survivors. There’s no body to bury. The funeral is full of emptiness, and Kate is the only one brave enough to go near Michael.

 

The night after the funeral, Michael books a plane ticket. One way to Italy.

 

Michael packs nothing but clothes and a packet of tomato seeds.

 

**Author's Note:**

> no i'm not sorry


End file.
